


Bar Crawl (Where Everybody Knows His Name)

by Jayne L (JayneL)



Category: Early Edition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-05
Updated: 2010-12-05
Packaged: 2017-10-13 12:55:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/137597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JayneL/pseuds/Jayne%20L
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A nocturnal agoraphobic with a frog in his throat, your ass.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bar Crawl (Where Everybody Knows His Name)

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers: general through the end of the series; specific for all the Brigatti eps.
> 
> Thanks to the lovely MaryKate for beta and, as with most things EE, inspiration.

_Trust_

You're walking from your car to McGinty's, enjoying the unseasonably warm morning and the gleam of sunlight off the bar's freshly-replaced windows, when your cellphone rings.

It's Bob Kingman. You stop in the middle of the sidewalk and stare at the call ID, frowning. What are the odds this has to do with work, and isn't one of Bob's 'just checking in to see how you are' calls?

It's been two weeks since the marina, and Bob's called every single day. You've gone out with him twice, and already you know there's nothing in a romance for either of you; he's a nice guy, and you work well together, but there's no energy there, no real chemistry. Besides, he treats you like some kind of goddess, like you can do no wrong, and since you've never much cared for being put on a pedestal, that's getting old. Fast. You think the calls are because he sees the problems, too, but doesn't want to admit it to himself--which is fair. If you'd made a big, emotional declaration of your long-burning torch for someone who, it turned out, you were completely wrong for, you wouldn't want to admit it, either.

Of course, that's why you **don't** make big, emotional declarations. At all. And the hell of it is, Bob isn't really the type for that kind of thing, either. He'd probably have been content to adore from afar for the rest of his life while you stayed happily oblivious--but Hobson just had to go and encourage him.

You really need to find a good way to thank him for all the awkwardness you and Bob have in store for you at work.

You silence the phone and shove it back into your pocket. Whichever kind of call it is, Bob can wait.

As you enter McGinty's, the kid behind the bar glances up from whatever he's doing, a conciliatory look on his face. "Sorry, we're not open yet--" Recognition dawns, and the apology turns into a broad, excited grin. "Hey, it's you! You're the, the special agent, or whatever! Mister Hobson's friend! Hi!"

'Friend' is pushing it more than a little, but the kid is like a puppy wagging its tail so hard its entire back half is shaking, so you bite your tongue to keep from correcting him. "Hey." You think back to your brief--and very preoccupied--introduction. "Patrick, right?"

"That's me! Hey--" The grin condenses into a smaller, only half-joking smile. "--we're not gonna get shot up again, are we? 'Cause we've just finished cleaning up from the last time, and I don't think Miss Clark and Mister Hobson want to pay for replacing all the windows and half the liquor **twice**."

You offer a small, tight smile. "As far as I know, the drive-bys should be over. Is your boss available?"

"Sure!" Patrick bounces out from behind the bar, heading for the office. "One sec."

But it's Hobson's partner who appears, cane in hand but not, as far as you can tell, being used as she crosses the room, dodging tables and chairs with easy familiarity. "Can I help you?"

"Hi. Marissa Clark, isn't it?" As you speak, she steers herself unerringly toward your voice until she comes to a stop right in front of you, wrapping her hands around the top of her cane and giving you her full attention. "US Marshal Toni Brigatti. We met the other day--"

"With Gary." She nods. "I remember. What can I do for you, Marshal?"

"Actually, I was looking for Hobson." You cast a glance over Clark's shoulder, toward the back rooms. "Is he upstairs?"

She shakes her head. "You just missed him; he had some errands to run." And then, almost an afterthought but not quite: "For the bar."

"Oh, sure." Said like that, and to a law enforcement official? There's no way he's out on bar business. You narrow your eyes, considering Clark anew. "He's a slave to those mysterious hobbies of his, huh?" you comment archly, but she doesn't even blink. You decide to try the direct approach, and lean in a little, lowering your voice. "Do **you** know how he wound up in that steam room?"

Her eyes widen, just a little--but Clark, you can tell, is a pro: she's the picture of innocence as she answers earnestly, "He sounded awful that morning. I think he had a frog in his throat."

You lean back again, stymied. "Uh-huh."

"Can I give him a message for you?"

You sigh, giving up on figuring out the strangeness that is Witness for the Prosecution Gary Hobson and his friends. For now. "We need to go over a couple parts of his statement--things Corbell said to him, the takedown at the marina. Let him know to give me a call? He has my card."

Clark nods. "I'll tell him."

"Thanks." You open your mouth to say goodbye, then pause. The call from Bob has rattled things around in your head; you find yourself curious about something else Hobson-related, and take a chance on maybe getting a straight answer about **something** to do with the man. "Did he work things out with Blondie? The woman whose lunch date was so rudely interrupted by my kidnapping."

Clark shifts her weight, and you can't be sure, but you think maybe she's relieved at the change of focus. "They're working on it," she says circumspectly, then adds with a hint of an edge, "Being able to explain things helped."

"It usually does." You clear your throat. "I'm, uh, sorry I got in his way."

She takes one hand off her cane and gives a dismissive little wave. "Please don't be sorry. Besides, Gary gets in his own way more than enough; it's hard to hold it against other people, especially when their intentions are good."

"I was just doing my job."

"Even more reason not to be sorry." She smiles, warm and genuine. "Thank you for keeping him safe."

You're a little taken aback by the depth of emotion in her voice. You know they own the bar together, so obviously they have to be friends, but the expression on her face underscores her grateful tone with a troubled kind of relief, and you realise that Clark cares about the guy--really cares, and cares a lot, enough to worry about him even after the danger's passed. She worries about him, and she lies for him, and you're pretty sure she's been doing both for quite a while.

For the second time since she walked into the room, you study her from a new perspective. "I was just doing--" She arches an eyebrow, and you cut yourself off. "Anyway, he returned the favour."

"Still. Thank you."

"You're welcome."

* * *

 _Crumb_

The Green Penny is a cop bar about a block from Crumb's old station house. You've never really been much for cop bar culture--you'd much rather dissolve the knots from a bad day in a hot bath than a bottle of booze--but Crumb's the type to look forward to a few beers at the end of his day, and he insists: "For solving the case and saving my bacon," he says, and, knowing the mess Joanne Cranston made for the old guy, you can't say no.

When you arch your eyebrow at the sign hanging over the door, he adds, "The name's a little on the nose, sure. But the drinks are cheap."

In fact, the first round of drinks is free, the bartender welcoming Crumb with the special brand of generosity it takes decades of dedicated patronage and personal sympatico to earn from even the nicest of barkeeps. You wonder, briefly, if that kind of inter-professional camaraderie is in your future, and decide it probably isn't.

The second round passes in shop talk: your current cases, selected blasts from Crumb's past, more or less the same conversation you could have with any of your co-workers. But Crumb throws in some entertaining--and informative--stories about division and municipal bigwigs, Chicago institutions you haven't been in the city long enough to know about yet, and as you near the bottom of your second scotch and soda, you're willing to admit that cop bars may have their place in the grand scheme of the job, after all.

Five minutes into the third round, a lull in conversation prompts the question you've been wanting to ask Crumb for days: "So what is the deal with Hobson?"

Crumb laughs, a low, dry chortle that quirks up the corners of your own lips, too. "All I know is, my last couple years on the job, he was a pain in my neck, showing up every other week with his hunches and feelings and nonsense. I don't know how he does it--I don't wanna know how he does it--but he gets himself tangled up in more heavy business than a professional weightlifter."

You pause with your glass halfway to your mouth. "But you worked for him after you retired."

He shrugs. "Hey, he drives me nuts, but he's a decent kid." He takes a long swallow of beer; behind the casual action, you can see wheels turning, his eyes shrewd and searching as he looks at you. You look right back, waiting out whatever debate he's having with himself, hoping that, whatever he's thinking, it doesn't involve shutting you down.

Finally, obviously coming to some kind of decision, he puts his glass on the table with a thump and says gruffly, "Hobson said you used to be a Fed?"

You nod. "US Marshal."

"You know about the president's visit a couple years back?"

You've heard stories. Rumours traded at office parties, conspiracy theories nobody ever takes seriously because you may be no-nonsense government employees, but when you get right down to it, who **doesn't** have some ridiculous idea about the Kennedy assassination, especially while drunk? But Crumb's leaning across the table, his shoulders hunched up around his ears, his expression stone sober, and you may not have known him very long, but you know he's not the type to trade gossip with nothing behind it. "Are you telling me--"

"Don't ask me how, but Hobson nearly got himself on the hook for a presidential assassination--and a bullet to the head, probably, if we hadn't got there in time." While that sinks in, he takes another drink, and you can see the shadows of what had happened--and what might have happened--in every line of his face. It strikes you that for all his cynicism, for all he acts the curmudgeon with his designated watering hole and old-timer tales, Crumb's been seriously rattled a time or two--and suddenly, you're more than willing to bet that Hobson's been there, some way or another, during the most recent quakes.

Across the table, Crumb looks down, tilting his glass so the dregs of his beer roll around inside. "After that mess, I was sure he'd disappear back into the woodwork, quit coming around with his hocus-pocus mumbo-jumbo **involving** himself all the time."

He says it like that's all there is to say; you pick up the rest of the thought, too much to it to be left unspoken. "But he didn't."

"He didn't. Pain in my neck." Crumb looks up again, his eyes sharp. "Says something, though, don't it?"

You nod, thoughtful. "It says something."

* * *

 _Iceman_

As soon as he's released, Kettner sidles up to your desk and perches himself on one corner. The ambient noise level of the bullpen drops as if someone flipped a switch; you grit your teeth and keep your eyes glued to the report you're amending for the lieutenant.

"You're still wearing that wedding ring," he says. By his tone, you know he thinks he's being suave; all that jovial smarm directed at you makes you yearn for a tub of bleach and a scouring brush. For your skin. "Does that mean you're married in real life?"

For the first time, you really wish you could say yes. Then again--"This wedding ring didn't seem to put you off any before."

"Ah, but before, it was all an act." Kettner leans down a little, as if sharing a private joke. "I just knew a woman like you couldn't possibly be as happy as you were pretending to be with...Larry, or whatever his name was." He chuckles, and your hand clenches into an involuntary fist around your pen. It's unbelievably galling, the derision in his voice as he talks about Hobson--who did, after all, save both your life and your job over the past couple days. You doubt Kettner has it in him to save money at the grocery store. With coupons. "And you're not, are you?"

You shouldn't bait him. You really shouldn't, and not just because everyone else in the room is listening in like they're surveilling a roomful of baby-eating cop-killers; you shouldn't bait him because you know--you **know** \--he'll only think you're flirting, and of all the things you never, ever want to do with Paul Kettner, flirting is right at the top of the list.

Well, maybe second or third. Top five, for sure.

The thing is, you just don't have it in you to let jerks like this off easy.

You force your hand to unclench and lay down the pen before you use it impulsively in ways it was not meant to be used, and lean back to look right up into Kettner's smug face. Putting a note of speculation into your voice, you say, "You think you'd be better for me?"

"Absolutely." Grinning, he gestures expansively at the bullpen around you--its rumpled cops and sullen perps, squealing file cabinets and bottomless pots of burnt coffee--and adds, by all indications unironically: "I can take you away from all this."

Behind you, someone turns an escaped laugh into a very unconvincing coughing fit--Winslow, you think. You can't blame him; aside from having just used that line, Kettner's staring down at you like he thinks he's the lead in some godawful soap opera, just waiting to bear you away to a fainting couch somewhere. If you weren't still so preoccupied with your happy daydream of a nice, thorough shower with industrial cleaners, you'd be laughing, too.

Apparently taking your appalled silence for heartrending indecision, Kettner reaches out and puts his hand over yours. You try not to shudder at the imagined feel of slime oozing into your pores. "If you're worried I'm holding a grudge over the whole you-arrested-me thing," he murmurs huskily, setting Winslow off again, "don't be. Amber led us both astray; I don't blame you for that. And once you get to know me, you'll see I'm not that bad."

You smile. "Of course you're not that bad," you say sweetly, rising from your chair and leaning forward as if going in for a kiss. Triumph flashes across Kettner's face, and he tilts his head, opens his mouth--

\--and you pull back just enough to glare right into his beady little eyes and say, with all the softness of a gravel pit, "I'm sure you're worse."

As laughter and applause erupt throughout the bullpen, you yank your hand free of Kettner's, turn on your heel and stride for the door.

You had, actually, forgotten you were still wearing that ring.

All the way to McGinty's, you wonder if Hobson forgot about his, too.

* * *

 _Fatal_

The DA's office is still in overdrive trying to mitigate the public relations nightmare resulting from the discovery of two contract killers in the Chicago Police Department, so when you give your testimony against Savales and Arbuthnot, it's in closed court. Of course, that doesn't stop the vultures from the Sun-Times, the Trib, CNN and about a dozen other news outlets from congregating in the hall outside, but you keep your head up and your mouth closed as you follow your union rep through the scrum. You're too preoccupied with the relief of finally having testified and the satisfaction of a job well done to hear the questions coming at you from all sides, anyway. When the reporters realise they won't get anything from you, they fall back, leaving you to say a quick thanks to your rep before ducking into the stairwell to take a shortcut to your car.

The door's barely shut behind you when a man in a short-brimmed hat with a camera bag slung over his shoulder pushes himself out of his lean against the wall and plants himself right in your way. "Miguel Diaz, Sun-Times," he begins, and you try to brush past him, but he dodges with you. "You're that lady cop who nearly got herself killed helping Hobson."

You decide to ignore 'lady cop'. For now. You're standing at the top of a flight of stairs, after all, and nobody needs a broken neck. "And you're that photographer who nearly got himself arrested for aiding and abetting."

He holds up one hand, palm out. "Photo- **journalist**."

You smile. Well, you show your teeth. "Nice to meet you. Goodbye."

" _Espera, espera, un minuto,_ Detective," he says, closing the gap you were aiming for with a neat side-step. "I don't want to ask about your testimony. I want to talk about Hobson."

That pulls you up short. "Hobson?"

"Yeah." Knowing he's hooked you at least for the moment, Diaz backs off a step--but his focus intensifies, and there's a note of calculation in his voice as he goes on: "The way he runs around the city getting into trouble as much as he does? Guy like that, I bet the cops've built up one hell of a file."

Alarm bells go off in your head. You stand stock still, fixing Diaz with your steeliest poker face.

He takes a second to absorb your body language; then, undeterred, he offers a sly crook of a smile and says, "You show me yours, I'll show you mine."

The mixture of cunning and hope on his face is so plain it's almost funny. You have no intention of giving this guy Hobson's file--or, as it's come to be known with varying degrees of affection amongst your colleagues, 'the phonebook'. For one thing, you just finished cleaning up the fallout from some other nosy bastard's interest in Hobson's extracurriculars, and you're pretty sure he's not looking to be on the run again anytime soon. But then, Hobson and Diaz are kind of friends, aren't they? But then **again** , if Diaz is keeping a file of his own...

You make a decision. "Can I buy you a drink, Diaz?" His face lights up like Christmas; you add quickly, "Off the record," but his excitement doesn't dim.

You lead him to a little pub that usually caters to lawyers and their more chi-chi clientele, across and a few doors down from the courthouse. This time of day, the place is nearly empty; nevertheless, you pick a small table against the wall, far from anyone who might take it into their head to listen in on your conversation.

The drink you buy yourself is ice water. Diaz watches with a bemused curl in his lip as you down half the glass in one go, set the rest firmly on the table, then cross your arms and level him with your coolest stare. "Something tells me one of us is on a clock," he says wryly, then makes a show of taking a tiny, delicate sip of his mezcal.

You ignore the bait. "What makes you think a file means anything, anyway? Jake Arbuthnot had no file at all. And Ari Savales was a **cop**."

"Yeah, and they killed people for a living," he retorts. "They needed to keep their records clean. Hobson, though--he's a divorced schmuck who owns one of the many, many sports bars in this city. He should be a what-you-see-is-what-you-get kind of guy, but instead, he lands himself in the paper or the police blotter nine days a week." He gives you a look, part inviting, part cajoling. "I'm not saying there's anything wrong with that. All his running around, he's done some good--I mean, he's saved my life, too, _entiendes_? I'm just saying...there's gotta be a story there."

You shrug, casually dismissive. "Maybe there is no story. You said it yourself; maybe he's got nothing to hide."

"Frank Scanlon thought there was a story. That other cop on Scanlon's case, what's his name--" He snaps his fingers until it comes to him. "--Armstrong, he thought there was a story. I think there's a story. You don't?" Your silence makes him narrow his eyes; after another, bigger swallow from his glass, he leans forward and lowers his voice. "Why'd you help him?"

You don't even blink. With that question, and the way he said it, Diaz just turned your conversation into an interrogation. Fortunately, you're good at those. Meeting his eyes and matching his tone, you echo, "Why did you?"

Unlike you, he answers readily: "Hobson may be the weirdest busybody ever, but he's no killer. But that's not why **you** helped him." You open your mouth; unexpectedly, he pre-empts you with a sudden, brusque slice of his hand through the air. "It's not the only reason; whatever. I know cops. I gamble with cops. I hear things." He leans even closer, intensely conspiratorial, and you're sure he's heard an earful. "Come on, Detective. What do you know?"

Belatedly--so late you could kick yourself for not figuring it out sooner--you realise that Diaz thinks you **know**. Everything; why Hobson fills up one entire drawer of a filing cabinet at the station, how he seems so confident that he knows what's going to happen before it happens, whatever makes him show up in the most random places at exactly the right--or wrong--time. His story.

His secrets.

Pinned by the gleam in Diaz's eyes, you press your lips together while what you know cycles through your brain: Hobson had stumbled into something bigger and much nastier than he was suited for, the same inexplicable way he manages to stumble into so many things outside the expected purview of a Chicago bar owner. He'd been framed by professionals, but while the evidence added up to murder, the second you considered the man--the man who'd risked his own life to save your life and the lives of others, who had one of the city's best and straightest former cops in his corner, who'd looked at you in that hotel room in ways that still made your breath catch--the math went all wrong. Your lawyer friend, Polk, had suggested self-defense on his way into Hobson's cell and insanity on his way out, and Addison Polk may be a perfect weasel of a lawyer, but the math on **that** didn't add up right, either. And the lie-detector test that Hobson had practically begged to take concluded nothing but that he had a propensity for deception--and you'd known that about him from the start.

A nocturnal agoraphobic with a frog in his throat, your ass.

Diaz is waiting, watching, practically vibrating with anticipation.

You stand. "Keep your file. Whatever Hobson's story is, I'm not interested in getting it from you."

Diaz's face goes slack with genuine surprise as you turn on your heel and stride for the door. You're halfway outside when you hear him call after you--"But you are interested in getting it!"--but you don't stop. You don't even hesitate.

You meant what you said.

* * *

 _Amber_

The congregation adjourns to McGinty's for the reception, packing the bar with well-wishers and hangers-on who have no idea they're partying with an international jewel thief and her merry band of liars, crooks and, maybe redundantly, politicians. Hobson gets you a bag of ice for your aching knuckles--and another for his jaw, which you're a little chagrined but also meanly gratified to see beginning to purple--before Fishman pulls him away for what he calls 'best man duties'.

Which is how you come to be sitting alone at the back corner of the bar, a soggy dishtowel in one hand and a very big glass of wine in the other, watching Amber--Jade--maneuver Hobson onto and around the dancefloor with an ease that sets your teeth on edge. So when Fishman wanders over from a raucous group of back-slappers to top up his champagne flute, you're tired and grumpy and, yeah, a little vindictive, and you can't help yourself: "You just married a felon, you know."

He doesn't even look at you as he takes his refilled glass from the bartender. "A pardoned felon, thank you very much. She makes me very happy."

"I'll bet."

Now he cuts a look your way, assessing you as he sips his drink, and suddenly you regret saying anything. "Marissa says you and Gar have a thing."

You glare at the bouquet wilting gently where you dropped it in a puddle of beer. "I wouldn't get too comfortable with that present tense, if I were you."

"Okay." Turning fully toward you, he leans one elbow on the bar and gestures with his flute. "So either you had a thing, or you were about to get a thing going, but now you're pissed off about Jade and thinking about making him suffer." At your stony silence, he chuckles. "Oh, yeah. You two are going to be very happy together."

You watch him take another swallow of champagne, your eyes narrowing as you try to judge how drunk he is. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Listen, sister, while you're over here shooting daggers out your eyes, he's over there dancing with my beautiful bride because he knows that's the best way to get you to stop glaring and start yelling, already."

You follow the expansive wave of his glass to where Hobson's swaying gently with Jade, saying something you can't make out over the din of the room. The only clue you have to what they're talking about is Jade's broad--if, somehow, a little mystified--smile, and given that she's talking to **Hobson**... "You're not helping him, Fishman."

He shrugs. "Gary can be very passive-aggressive sometimes." Then, shaking his head, he leans a little closer, loses some of the flippancy in his tone. "My point is, he knows you're mad. And even though he did the right thing, helping Jade, he feels guilty. He wants you to yell at him, 'cause once you get that over with, maybe you can get back to shifting the tenses on that thing of yours."

His wisdom duly conferred, Fishman sucks back more bubbly, watching you with open amusement. Annoyed--and, embarrassingly, seriously weighing how much you want to believe him--you look away. Your gaze slides, irresistibly, back across the room: now Jade's talking, the index finger of her left hand worrying playfully at Hobson's shoulder while he looks down at her with that rabbit-on-the-L-tracks look you know so well. You say, dubiously, "That's what he's doing."

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Fishman wave dismissively with his free hand. "Well, consciously, he's dancing with her 'cause she asked and he's a gentleman. Subconsciously, though, he has one motive and one motive only."

"And that motive is making me deck him again."

"Uh-uh." You look back at him, brow furrowed, and he grins like a perverted Cheshire Cat. "Make-up sex!"

* * *

 _Time_

You arrive five minutes early for your date. Naturally, almost as soon as you walk into McGinty's, one of the waitstaff comes over to tell you that Hobson's running late, and he's sorry, but he said to have a seat and order whatever you want and he'll be down as soon as he can.

You toy with testing the limits of that 'whatever you want' offer but, after a moment's thought, decide against asking for a full bottle of tequila. "Water's fine, thanks."

While the waitress produces your drink, you find an empty barstool close to the door and sit, sighing. You wonder if you'll get an explanation for whatever the hold-up was; then you wonder, a little more realistically, if whatever explanation you get will make any kind of logical sense.

You're sipping your water, trying idly to decide whether armed international conflicts are going to figure prominently in Hobson's story, when, beneath the cheerful noise of the other patrons, you detect a soft but unmistakable sound: "Miaow."

You freeze. Then you look down; sure enough, there's Hobson's cat, sitting primly right next to your barstool, looking up at you with that insufferable cat look on its face. "Oh, yes, Hobson," you mutter, "let your cat roam the bar. Very hygienic." And that's exactly how you want to meet him whenever he decides to show up, too: with an uncontrollably runny nose, covered in hives. Hoping to get the thing away from you before it jumpstarts your allergies, you let your foot dangle and give a nonchalant kick.

The cat, maybe sensing that right now you're not armed, raises one paw and bats playfully at your shoe.

You roll your eyes and sigh--and realise that you can, in fact, still breathe. A minute and a half in Hobson's loft--with the cat hiding, very sensibly, under the bed--and you were sneezing your head off; now, though, the thing's sitting right underneath you, and nothing. "Maybe I don't have to call the Health Department on this place," you mutter, adding a sharp, "yet," when the cat stops poking your foot and turns its wide green eyes questioningly upward.

It does make you wonder how often Hobson vacuums upstairs, though.

By the time Hobson appears, the cat's grown bored with your shoe and moved on to twining around the legs of your stool, arching its back and twitching its tail as if you're actually petting it. It dashes away at Hobson's hiss, trotting nimbly into the forest of patron and table legs.

You give Hobson a look. "You always let your cat run loose in here?"

He shrugs, a little sheepish. "It's not really a matter of **letting**."

You turn your head just in time to see the cat's tail vanish under a heavily-populated table. "Aren't you worried somebody'll take it?"

"No. No, I'm not."

~~~

When you'd made this date, Hobson had asked, "You like movies?"

You'd answered carefully, already running through the list of what you knew was playing. "I like some movies."

"You like old movies?"

He takes you to see Arsenic and Old Lace. "It's one of my favourites," he says as you stroll down the sidewalk together, jackets open in the cool evening air.

"Yeah?" You cut him a teasingly inquisitive look. "You got bodies in the basement I don't know about?"

He cuts you a look right back. "Are there bodies in my basement you **do** know about? If so, you should really tell me, Brigatti, 'cause my basement's under a bar, and dead bodies would be a health hazard."

Later, you'll obsess over whether he really did pause just a fraction of a second too long before making the joke.

The theatre's an independent one a few blocks from the bar--the kind of single-screen mom-and-pop operation you'd thought didn't exist anymore. The kid at the box office has more bits of metal in his face than the bulletin board at work; he greets Hobson by name and winks at you as he hands over your tickets. When you ask, Hobson says, "Darnell got into some trouble a while back, and needed a job. I knew they were hiring here."

"Hobson to the rescue, huh?"

You're just walking into the poorly-lit theatre when you say it, so you can't be sure, but you think he blushes.

By the time the movie starts, there are only four or five other people in the theatre.

You share popcorn. When your hand brushes his in the tub, you feel like a teenager.

~~~

After the movie, you say yes to coffee. Hobson introduces you to an unassuming little hole in the wall practically inside an L stop; you don't expect much from your mocha, which comes in a plain white cup with a chip in the handle, but when you take your first sip, it's amazing. "How do you find these places? I've been living in this city two years, and I barely know where to get pizza outside my precinct."

He smiles, his eyes crinkling over the rim of his cup. "I just know my way around, that's all."

Part of you sincerely doubts that can possibly be **all**. But you're already smiling back, your face feeling, suddenly, a little warm, and you swallow that cynical part down with another sip of perfectly-blended chocolate coffee.

When you're finished, he walks you to the L stop and stands with you on the platform. For a long moment, you're quiet together, and it's easier than you'd expected. Strangely so; you'd thought, when you'd let yourself think about this part of the date at all, that everything you've already been through together would've made you both awkward. How could it not?

It's just the latest strangeness where Hobson's concerned, but it's the one that tips the balance. You take a deep breath, preparing yourself, then say it flat out: "I've been trying to figure you out."

"Yeah?" And there it is: that guarded look, the one that shows up in response to the most innocent statements and straightforward questions--or doesn't, with no rhyme or reason you can understand. If you know one thing for sure about Gary Hobson--and sometimes you think it may be the **only** thing you know for sure--you know he's gotta be awful at poker. "Any luck?"

You arch your eyebrow. "I'm a detective, Hobson; I don't need luck. All I need is time."

"Time, huh?" All at once he relaxes again, just as inexplicably as he tensed up, and his eyes are bright and there's a smile in his voice and you know for sure you won't need luck at all. "I can give you time, Brigatti."

"That's all I need."

You hear the train in the distance just before he kisses you. Then time stops and you hear nothing at all.

End.


End file.
